


Learning Curve

by ehmazing



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaune has gotten a lot better at dealing with girls. But his fighting skills could still use some work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curve

Jaune's first crush was Rana Cheveux. When he decided to confess his love by pulling on one of her braids, she'd pushed him to the ground, tied him to the jungle gym with a jump rope, and left him struggling there all recess as a warning to the other boys of their second-grade class. His mother shook her head and sighed when the teacher reported the incident.

"Oh dear," she said, untangling the last bits of jump rope from around his ankles, "that's no way to tell any girl you like her! Next time, just be honest."

The problem with honesty was that it required courage, and even in the second grade Jaune was well aware that courage was a trait he simply did not possess. Fighting may not have been the best way to win girls over, but he was less afraid of getting thoroughly beaten by a second-grader than he was of expressing his feelings with words.

If only the fighting part hadn't gotten so hard.

"Another round?" ask three of Pyrrha Nikos, standing above him.

Jaune waits for his vision to stop swimming before sitting up.

"Okay," he groans, taking Pyrrha's offered hand, "what did I do wrong that time?"

"You let your guard down again," she says, pulling him to his feet. "You thought you had the upper hand, and you let your confidence make you think you had already won. Getting cocky means getting taken advantage of."

Jaune rubs his sore shoulders. "Well then someone else must be possessing my brain when I fight, because I'm pretty I've never had the upper hand."

It's true: they've sparred for weeks on this roof. Week after week of Pyrrha pointing out everything he does wrong, fixing it, and then pointing out the new problems that he's managed to create even after fixing the old ones. He's fought her for weeks and never once had any confidence that he was close to winning.

But somehow he keeps coming back, taking the stairs to the roof when classes let out, no matter how much he doesn't want to. There's just something about Pyrrha that makes him get up every time she throws him to the floor. She's never impatient with him, never disappointed. She never criticizes when he gets something wrong, only expresses her joy when he finally gets it right. Jaune is half-sure she's one of those workout trainers on his mom's exercise videos, always encouraging you to kick higher. Or a living ad for vitamin water. He's half-sure that she's also part goddess.

Pyrrha shakes her head. "You have the upper hand when you're fighting with your head." She takes his right arm and raises it. "You thought you would hit me if you swung here, right? So when I blocked," she brings her left arm against his slowly, an action-replay of her previous defence, "you didn't expect it because you were certain your hit would land first. You have to learn to anticipate what your opponent will do, and how you can use that against them."

"But how am I supposed to expect that you'll block every time? Two rounds ago you just kicked my knee out and that was enough." Jaune tugs at his hair and groans. "No one told me sparring meant learning to mind-read."

"It doesn't," Pyrrha shrugs. "It just means to be prepared for anything." She backs up a few paces and settles into her stance. "Ready to try again?"

He isn't, but he gets into position anyway. Wait; he fixes the angle of his back leg when she gives him a look.

"Okay," Jaune says, "ready when you arRGHH!"

He just barely dodges the elbow aimed for his chin, but he leans back too far to counter properly. Pyrrha swings again and his block is sloppy, but on the next hit he meets the rhythm of her strikes. They move back and forth across the roof in a flurry of attacks and parries, hits and misses.

Despite never managing to beat her, after all this time together Jaune at least knows which moves Pyrrha likes to make. He focuses on his defense, trying to parry her without losing too much ground. _Anticipate what your opponent will do, and use it against them_ , he thinks, narrowly avoiding the same kick that knocked him down two rounds ago.

Finally he sees an opening: her right side left undefended as she pulls back her arm. But just as he's about to move, he remembers. In his mind everything slows down like Pyrrha's demonstration, and he can practically see the twich of muscle in her left arm as she's about to raise and block--

Jaune grabs her left arm mid-strike, sweeps her feet out with a kick, and throws them both to the floor.

His knees sting from the fall--he really should get knee guards one of these days--but he can't stop grinning as Pyrrha gives an experimental struggle, her wrists pinned under his hands and his legs fixed over her thighs. The sheer shock in her expression is proof enough: he won. He did it. 

"I did it!" Jaune shouts. "I actually did it!"

Pyrrha rolls her eyes. "See what happens when you actually take my advice?" But he can see the corners of her mouth twitching in an attempt not to laugh. Jaune grins.

"I'd watch out if I were you, Nikos," he says smugly. "You might find yourself in a losing streak. The student has finally become the master!"

"Oh? I don't think so." Her breath ghosts against his face as she speaks. Even pinned to an old rooftop, Pyrrha still looks like she's walked out of a vitamin water ad, glowing with that kind of messy-hair-glossy-with-sweat ease that ordinary people could never achieve. Her eyes are so bright and so close and Jaune feels something tighten in his chest when she smiles, even though she's taunting him. "After all, you still haven't learned the most important lesson about fighting. In fact, I may have to explain it to you yet again."

Jaune swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He tries to clear his head.  _Stop thinking about vitamin water_. "Yeah? And what might that be?"

"I think you'll be able to figure it out soon enough. But if you need my help, all you have to do is ask."

He is about to say something back, some final clever, triumphant retort, but just as he opens his mouth Pyrrha lifts up her head and kisses him.

It's not his first kiss. Jaune's first kiss was Rana Cheveux, after he had given her the apology card his mom had forced him to make for the braid-tugging. She'd complimented his crayon drawing of a Deathstalker, smashed her mouth onto his cheek, scrunched up her face and summarized the experience for the both of them: "Ew."

So maybe that doesn't count as a real first kiss. But this, this has to count for something. Pyrrha's mouth is so warm, so soft, so overwhelmingly wonderful that a few wasted seconds tick by before his brain figures hey idiot, you should probably kiss her back.

Jaune kisses her back. He kisses her back and Pyrrha smiles--smiles!--against his mouth. There's the tinny clink of metal on metal as her chest plate brushes against his as she breathes, and Jaune would've laughed at the sheer silliness of the sound had Pyrrha not decided to kiss him again, this time by pulling him down by the collar and _oh god, that's definitely her tongue_.

She tastes salty, probably sweat on her lips from the training session, and Jaune wonders if he should think that's gross. But what about half-tv-exercise-guide, half-goddess Pyrrha could be anything less than perfect? Her salty lips are perfect and her eyelashes are perfect and the bump of her chin against his is perfect when she tilts her head, breaking the kiss only to take another breath. Jaune marvels at how she can remember to breathe at all--he seems to have completely forgotten how. He can't concentrate on anything but Pyrrha's tongue glancing against his teeth, her fingers trailing up his wrist, her hand suddenly gripping his upper arm tightly--

And then Pyrrha flips him over her shoulder.

When Jaune's head stops aching, she's standing above him again, threefold. The Pyrrhas takes one breath, then another.

"Don't," she repeats, "let your guard down, even after you think you've won." She brushes a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. Looking at her, sweating and panting and framed by the open sky, Jaune's throat is dryer than ever. 

"Right!" he squeaks, still slightly dizzy from the flip, but also dizzy from, well, what happened before it. He gets back to his feet too quickly, stumbling. "Guard down! Don't do it!"

The silence between them is stifling. He feels like he's too hot for his own skin, the plating of his armor suddenly so heavy that it's a struggle to stay standing. 

 _Say something!_ Jaune's brain pleads. _Say anything! Be honest!_  What she said about having the upper hand in his head is true in more situations than sparring. In his head Pyrrha is recoiling, scrunching her face up in distaste. Ew.

 _Be honest_. Jaune has always been a coward. But then again, isn't that one of the mistakes Pyrrha has been trying to help him fix?

He blurts out, "Another round?"

Pyrrha doesn't make a face. She smiles. Her smile is advertisement-worthy, beaming and perfect, and Jaune remembers what it felt like to kiss her perfect, salty-sweaty mouth. As she gets into her attack stance he wonders if he could work up the courage to try it again. After all, he doesn't want to get cocky, but he's learned a thing or two about girls since the second grade.

"Ready when you are!" he calls, and Pyrrha starts the charge.


End file.
